


Spark Joy

by jellybeanforest



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cap-Ironman Bingo, Established Relationship, Great Depression, KonMari Method, M/M, Minimalism, Obsolete Thanksgiving Traditions, Public Art, Steve Rogers Backstory, joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 15:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Tony Stark is on a minimalism kick, clearing out anything and everything that doesn’t spark joy, but he has a hard time convincing his boyfriend, Steve Rogers, of the benefits of decluttering. When Steve blows up at him over Tony’s insistence that he throw out a jacket he had patched, Tony learns about Steve’s poor upbringing and his subsequent employment as an artist under the WPA’s Federal Art Project.Or: You can take the man out of the Great Depression, but you can’t take the Great Depression out of the man.For the Cap-IronMan Bingo 2019 Round 2 – Joy.





	Spark Joy

**Thanksgiving 1931**

“Stand still, Steven, else I may stick you,” Sarah Rogers admonishes her son as she expertly pins her late husband old suitcoat on him at the cuffs to fit his diminutive frame. She had already done the wool trousers, which billowed out comically. Next was the old fedora, the rim stuffed with old newspaper to ensure it didn’t drop over his eyes.

“And for the final touch,” she thumbs a bit of black burnt cork over his upper lip in a poor imitation of a toothbrush mustache. “There. Now you look exactly like Charlie Chaplin.”

Steve examines himself in the chipped looking glass, turning himself one way then the other to compare his likeness to that of the famous Tramp in the moving pictures. “Thanks, Mom!”

“Dinner is at two. You stick close to Bucky and his sisters, you hear?”

“I will!” Steve shouts out over his shoulder as he grabs a brown paper bag and exits the apartment, going next door to meet up with his best friend who sports a similar outfit of old cast-offs.

“You’re looking real neat there, Stevie,” Bucky greets him when he answers the knock. “How did your Ma do up the sleeves like that?”

“Magic,” he replies.

“It’s much easier doing one outfit than four,” Mrs. Barnes calls out from the living room, still trying to get the last pin into her youngest’s threadbare coat, but the girl keeps fidgeting. “Stop squirming, May. You’re almost done.”

“Stevie’s already here, and I want to get going before the Thompkinses run out of oranges,” she whines. “Billy said they got a whole bag of ‘em to give out. First come, first served, but the whole class knows about it, so we’re not going to get any.”

“I’m sure there will be other oranges,” her mother soothes her, smearing a bit of burnt cork on the girl’s cheek.

“But what if all they have left are brazil nuts?” she cries. “Brazil must be funnin’ us, because I’m sure those nuts aren’t fit to be ate.”

“You can have my peanuts, May,” Steve offers magnanimously. “It’s not like I can eat them anyway.”

She runs up to him, throwing her arms around his waist to latch onto his middle. “Thank you, Stevie.”

“But I thought you were gonna give your peanuts to me,” Bucky mock-complains, pretending to be crushed as he lightly punches Steve’s shoulder over his sister’s head. “We had an understanding, Rogers. You and me.”

“Well, you can have my brazil and hazelnuts.”

He screws up his face. “That’s a raw deal, and you know it.”

Steve snaps his fingers as if he has just thought up the perfect solution. “Tell you what. If you shrink a foot and become a dame by the time we reach Billy Thompkins’ house, you can have my peanuts.”

“Nuh uh, you already promised them to me,” May points out. “No take-backs.”

The Thompkinses didn’t have any oranges, granting them each a handful of unshelled mixed nuts instead, which Steve parses out to the Barnes children accordingly, being allergic to them himself. May happily peels her peanuts on the way to the next house, while Bucky cracks the almonds, walnuts, and occasionally pecans underfoot to extract the edible meat for himself and his other sisters.

“Anything for Thanksgiving? Anything for Thanksgiving?” They call out at each door, holding out their paper sacks expectantly for one of three treats: nuts, fruit, or the occasional penny.

“I’ve got a 1927,” Bucky says, shining the coppery surface with a spit-ladden thumb.

Steve holds up his. “1918.”

“Oooo… lucky.”

The worst were the Bag Rattlers, glum adults who dipped a closed fist in their sack, rustling it about, pretending they had dropped something inside before withdrawing. When this occurred, the children thanked them then quietly descended the stairs to the next home. They weren’t completely oblivious to the economic trials gripping the country that had affected many of their neighbors. They had seen the long bread lines and the Hoovervilles that had cropped up in the aftermath of Black Thursday a couple years prior.

The Rogers and Barnes households had been lucky. Steve’s mother is a nurse, generally a recession-proof profession, while Mr. Barnes is the local butcher and hadn’t had to suffer through the mass lay-offs from one of the many closing manufacturing plants around the city. Still, times were lean, and the children had grown accustomed to such inexpensive fare as chipped beef and Hoover Stew while dreaming of better things.

“What’re you going to do with your share?” Bucky asks Steve.

“Penny candy, probably.”

“I’m getting a box of chocolate-covered graham crackers.”

“Oranges,” May replies.

“Caramel sticks!”

“Hershey’s.”

But when they returned later that afternoon for a Thanksgiving dinner at the Barnes apartment, the children dutifully surrender their pennies to their respective mothers, knowing that their contribution will keep the families in good standing with the local grocer. Bucky and Steve sit shoulder to shoulder, both having shrugged off their oversized hand-me-downs and washed the grime from their hands and faces. Then, all join hands to pray for their less-fortunate neighbors before thanking the Lord for his bounty and the feast in which they are about to partake.

“O God of Whose mercies there is no number, and of Whose goodness the treasure is infinite…”

* * *

**80ish Years Later**

“The Konmari Method simply requires you to confront every item you own individually by category and ask yourself ‘Does this spark joy?’ and if the answer is yes, then the item stays. If no, you thank the item for its presence in your life then discard it,” Tony explains to Steve while the two stand in his room. “It’s actually very relaxing to be free of all this clutter. I just completed the last category: Mementos. DUM-E stayed of course, but I donated all my vinyls because I only use digital these days and of course all the ex pictures went by the wayside. You wouldn’t believe all the junk I had just put into storage never to see the light of day. It’s amazing, the best thing I’ve done in a while, excluding present company of course. I’ve never felt so light.”

“I’m happy for you, Tony,” Steve replies, trying to ignore the way Tony is eyeing his closet with a critical gaze.

“Which is why I thought I’d help you get started,” he says, pawing through the contents and withdrawing Steve’s extra pair of khakis, the ones that were a little tighter than he preferred but could be useful if he lost a little bulk some day. “The first category is clothing.”

Steve plucks the pants hanger from Tony’s hands, re-placing it onto the bar in the far end of his closet. “I really don’t think this is necessary. Everything I have right now ‘sparks joy,’ or whatever you call it.”

Tony makes a show of looking around Steve’s room, littered with various books, art supplies, socks, and clothing strewn around. There are two alarm clocks atop his nightstand, one that works and another that might have worked before Steve threw it across the room that one time.

“Nonsense. You can’t possibly know that until you’ve gone through it all,” Tony grasps Steve’s shoulders to look deeply into his eyes. “Trust me, honey. The process may be difficult, but you’ll feel so much better when it’s done.”

He retrieves the khakis from the back of the closet once again. “Let’s start with this. It’s too small for you, and you’ll never wear it.”

By the time Tony has made his way through Steve’s shirts, badgering him to toss out ones too old or too old-man for such a young stud, Steve is getting increasingly annoyed, almost anxious.

“And now there’s this fine little number,” Tony holds up a jacket, the elbows of which Steve had patched when the fabric started to become a little worn. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Tony. I’d like to keep it, but I also wanted to keep the last twenty items as well.”

Tony ignores the warning in his voice. “Really, Steve?” he points to the slight discoloration at the seams under the arms where the fabric has worn away. “It’s practically falling apart. I feel like you’re not taking this seriously.”

“And I feel like you’re trying to outfit me like the latest fancy accessory hanging off your arm.” Steve doesn’t even want the jacket in particular, not as much as he wanted to keep his nice plaid shirts, but there has to be a line drawn somewhere. “I’m keeping the jacket.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, babe. You’re my partner, and I want you to have the very best because you’re worth it. Now, we can get one custom-made to fit your gorgeous physique like a glove, none of this off-the-rack stuff that’s too small across your chest and a touch too wide around your waist, and don’t even get me started on your ass. These pants right here,” he pulls out a pair of jeans from the depths of his closet, “do nothing for your fantastic ass.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this jacket,” Steve insists, hugging the item to his chest to protect it from a purge fueled by Tony’s inexplicable mania over his fashion choices.

“But it’s old and damaged.”

_That’s it._

Steve tosses the jacket into the barren ‘Keep’ pile. “You know what? This is exactly what’s wrong with your generation.”

Tony quirks up an eyebrow. “_My_ generation, Old Man Rogers?”

“Yeah, your generation. Everything is disposable now. Something’s not shiny and new anymore, you go out and get a new one, even if there’s nothing wrong with the one you got. Why, back in my day–”

“Oh, here we go.”

Steve thins his lips in anger. “You know what? Forget it. You’re not gonna listen, so I’m not gonna bother wasting my breath.”

Tony throws up his hands. “Steve… It’s just a jacket – a jacket that is getting too worn around the edges. What’s the big deal?”

“First it was my backup khakis–”

“You never wear them.”

“Then all my plaid shirts–”

“They weren’t doing you any favors.”

“And now it’s this jacket–”

“Face it, Cap. Your big strong arms wore out the elbows, and the material is thinning a little at the creases.”

“Which is why I patched it,” Steve sucks in a breath, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Do you even know how to repair _anything_?”

Tony places his hands on his hips. “I repair Iron Man all the time.”

“Not like that,” he turns away to massage the closed line of this eyes. “Do you know how to sew? How to get creative with limited resources, break down and repurpose items for the things you need?”

“Once again, considering I survived Afghanistan–”

Steve ignores the interruption. “Do you know how to stretch a quarter pack of hotdogs into multiple meals for a family of seven because that and a bag of potatoes were all you had until next payday?” he asks quietly, his voice rough. “Because I do. Bucky’s family didn’t have to take me in after Mom passed – I was just another mouth to feed at a time when everyone was hungry – but they did. Probably saved my life. I would never have survived Tin City being how I was back then. The winters were so cold, and the wind blew right through the cracks in the tin. Sometimes folks would die from burning salvaged wood in their shacks to keep warm. Carbon monoxide poisoning. But the Barneses? They scooped me up, housed me in a real apartment alongside their four kids, and treated me as one of their own. I was a burden to them, but I tried to be useful, tried to use up as little as I could while giving back whatever I could spare, which was never much. And this? This decluttering thing you’re doing, where you throw out perfectly good items because you’re done with them in the short term, with no thought to how you could use them for something else in the future… well, that might be okay for you, but it runs counter to everything I had to do growing up how I did, when I had nothing.”

“Steve… Steve, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” Tony places a hand on his boyfriend’s bicep, lightly massaging the muscles there. “I promise you’ll never have to live like that again.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I can. I’m the World’s Premier Futurist and an actual billionaire, so…”

“So was Samuel Insull, and he died with eighty-four cents in his pocket six years after he lost everything in the Great Depression,” Steve deadpans.

Tony knits his brow. “You think I’m going to go broke in an unprecedented, global economic disaster, and what? Your hoarding of subpar patched-up clothing is going to save us?” he says slowly to emphasize the ridiculousness of it all.

“Just forget it.”

“No, I’m just trying to understand what you think holding on to this stuff is going to accomplish.” He motions to Steve’s cluttered abode with an all-encompassing wave of his hands.

“Probably nothing, but it makes me feel better, like I could survive like that again if I had to, like it wasn’t all for nothing… like I haven’t grown soft and comfortable on your largesse.”

“…Whatever happens with us, I’m not going to throw you out on the street. You aren’t going to end up homeless. You know that, right?” Tony says earnestly, cupping Steve’s cheek.

Yes, of course he did. Tony would never.

Probably.

Maybe.

…It never hurt to have a backup plan.

After all, their relationship is relatively new, and Tony’s attention span notoriously short.

Steve doesn’t quite look at him when he asks, “What happens when I no longer ‘spark joy’?”

Tony draws back his hand as if burned. “You can’t possibly believe… Honey; look, all the stuff I’ve tossed recently? They’re just objects, things I’ve accumulated or that Pepper acquired for me thinking it would make me happier or less stressed out or more productive, but all this clutter? It _is_ stress-inducing _for me,_ which is why I’m going through this process. But Steve, look at me,” he orders, pointing at his face to draw the other man’s eye. “You? I’ve never wanted anyone more than I’ve wanted you, and if all this stuff makes you feel better, more secure, than you can keep it all, and I won’t bother you about it anymore. Hell, fill up my closets as well. It’s not like I haven’t made the space for it.”

Tony starts to empty the ‘Discard’ pile, hanging up Steve’s plaid shirts to put back in his closet. “I’m sorry I tried to force this process on you. The number one rule of the Konmari Method is to keep stuff that sparks joy for _you_. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Hm,” Steve turns to fold his backup khakis and drape it over a hanger. “I know it may seem silly, but I was always taught to hold on to everything, because you never know when you may need it one day.”

“Can you at least let me take the broken alarm clock off your hands?” Tony tips his chin towards the nightstand. “If your new one breaks, I promise to fix it. I’ll even give it a snazzy new upgrade.”

Steve supposes relationships are about compromise.

“Alright, sweetheart.”

* * *

Over the coming weeks, Tony expresses more interest in Steve’s pre-Captain America life. So, Steve tells him about the City before all the Depression-era construction, about Latin Mass and when Thanksgiving was essentially poor-man’s Halloween, and finally about his employment with the Works Progress Administration under President Roosevelt.

“I was an artist employed through the Federal Art Project making $23.60 a week,” Steve tells him when Tony compliments a sketch of the New York skyline as seen from the roof of the Avengers Tower. “A lot of my stuff has gone missing, probably destroyed in the decades since, some of it during a bad renovation job, you know? Murals can be difficult to preserve in storage, especially with the white lead adhesive they used to use back in the day. It will deteriorate and the paint will flake, and then just like that, something you’ve worked on for months disappears.” Steve shrugs, but Tony can tell the thought bothered him.

Still, he latches onto one kernel of knowledge. “Hold on, you used to work for the Federal Art Project?”

“Yeah, that’s correct.”

“So you were a FAP artist?”

Steve is clearly unamused.

So Tony holds up his hands in a placating manner. “Sorry. Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. I’m an asshole for connecting the obvious dots, but Cap, the joke writes itself,” he bites his lip to hide a smile.

* * *

Steve walks into the lab to meet Tony for their date only to hear the tail-end of a phone conversation.

“Pepper, I don’t care about expense. I want it. I need it. Make it so,” he hangs up, startling when he turns to find his boyfriend idling by the door.

Steve can see Tony fabricate, discard, and refine his excuses for what is likely none of Steve’s business. If Tony wants to waste his money on the newest gizmo of the week, then it’s not like he has to clear it with him. “You ready to go, sweetheart?” he asks, before Tony can vocalize any half-truths and outright lies.

“Just about. Let me grab my coat.”

* * *

Six months later, Steve walks into the foyer of the Avengers Tower to find a large renovation project underway. He asks Tony about all the scaffolding and secrecy, but the man waves him off, explaining that he is going to outfit the entire reception area in a tasteful layer of brilliant gold leaf and rococo styling.

Steve recoils at the thought. “Do you really think that’s necessary?” he blurts out. It’s bad enough the Tower is llama-shaped, its mere presence already an eyesore on the city’s skyline, without making the interior hideous as well.

Tony breaks into a smile. “I’m just messing with you, Cap, but you should have seen the look on your face.”

In the discussion that follows of what exactly constitutes acceptable taste, Steve forgets his boyfriend never actually answers the question.

* * *

The reason becomes apparent several weeks later, when the renovation is complete and the sheet removed to reveal–

“Do you like it?” Tony asks, rolling his feet from heel to toe in anticipation of Steve’s verdict.

Steve doesn’t know what to say. “Is that…?”

“Yep,” Tony confirms. “The latest acquisition to my fine art collection. The WPA-funded mural ‘A Brief History of Brooklyn’ by Steve Rogers. The only extant example of this artist’s work. Tracked down to an old library that was converted into a now-defunct private school, which lay abandoned for a number of years before being scheduled to be demolished. I purchased it from the state, then had it removed, restored to its former glory and relocated here,” he explains, waiting for Steve’s reaction. When none is to be had, he prompts him, “So…”

Tony suddenly finds himself encapsulated in strong arms gently squeezing the breath from him.

“I love it, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs softly, overcome with joy.

“Breathe, Steve,” Tony says, which Steve thinks is an odd thing to say considering Steve isn’t hysterical until Tony clarifies in hushed tones: “I need to breathe. Can you…?”

“Oh sorry,” Steve lets up, but still holds him close. He looks back at the mural, remembering the months he had worked on it and how proud he had been upon completion. “Thank you, Tony. Really.”

“You’re welcome, honey.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think one of the things that is often overlooked is that Steve came of age during the Great Depression. My grandfather was also born in 1918, and it was the defining event of his pre-teen years through his young adult life and very much affected certain aspects of his philosophy and way of life (like his propensity to save money and things, his general distrust in financial institutions, and his aversion to farming as a profession because his family lost the farm and his father died in a poorhouse). As a young orphan in Brooklyn with little marketable skills, compromised health, and no family, Steve would have been at risk for becoming homeless and destitute, probably inhabiting a tin shack with a bunch of other unemployed men and families in one of the local Hoovervilles with no running water, heat, nor bathrooms and having to live off the charity of churches and the Salvation Army for food (the breadlines). This was at a time when safety nets like Social Security and the WPA were just starting to become a thing. 
> 
> I understand that in the comics, Bucky is a lot younger than Steve, but in the MCU where they are childhood friends, it’s my personal headcanon that Bucky’s family was better off than Steve’s and took him in after his mother’s death so he didn’t end up dying in one of the shanty towns that had sprung up within NYC. When President Roosevelt established the Works Progress Administration (WPA) in 1935, he created many federal jobs to fix up infrastructure and old federal buildings. I don’t think Steve would have gone into construction, considering his weak constitution, but he might have become an artist under the WPA’s Federal Art Project (abbreviated FAP, which is currently short-hand slang for male masturbation – I’m not making this up). The government actually employed artists to create public art like murals, paintings, sculpture, graphic design, posters, photography, and handicrafts, as well as work in community art centers. This was done to essentially employ these people so they didn’t starve or become homeless at a time when unemployment was super high (like 25% at the height of the Great Depression in 1933 compared to 10% at the height of the Great Recession in 2009), and people that were employed had to take steep pay cuts. It was basically the 2008 downturn on steroids with no social safety net programs, if you can imagine that. A lot of these public art works are now missing or have been destroyed, but many do still exist in federal buildings, libraries, schools, and the like, and can be enjoyed by the public today. It is possible to remove murals, and relocate them, but this can get expensive depending on the condition of the painting and building and the adhesive used (especially if it is white lead). Tony spares no expense.
> 
> TL;DR: Steve Rogers is historically a FAP artist. I don’t make the rules; I just report them.


End file.
